"How many this time?" Inspector Wojcik asked.
"Five, Sir."
"That makes fourteen dead Borderlanders in three weeks. This is insane."
They walked through the smouldering ruins of what had once been a kitchen. The wooden cottage roof had burned away completely and collapsed into the living room, igniting furniture, curtains, and wallpaper. Thankfully, the fire brigade had arrived in time. The owner had rented the house to five Borderland refugees — men in their thirties. Their bodies were found at the back. All five had had their throats slashed. Empty alcohol bottles littered the scene, suggesting the victims had been heavily drunk and likely asleep when they were killed. There were no signs of a struggle.
"Strange…" the inspector muttered.
"What is, Sir?"
"This time he set them on fire. Remember what I told you about the demonstrative nature of the previous murders?"
"Yes. It was as if he wanted to show off, leaving the mutilated bodies on display for everyone to see."
"Exactly. If the house burned down, no one would see anything."
Inspector Wojcik and Detective Sergeant Farnicki had been dragged from their beds early that Sunday morning. They were exhausted. For three weeks the Sarmatian serial killer case had consumed them. Every jurisdiction in Lechia was demanding results. Politicians, the media, Western observers, human rights activists, their superiors, and the locals all interfered. At least the last two had some right to do so; the others seemed driven by personal gain, poisoning the already grim atmosphere of the investigation.
The media churned out increasingly absurd theories. They had dubbed the killer the Vengeance Angel, then the Modern Vampire, and finally the Lechian Leatherface. Officials were worse. While the tabloids kept things local, Lechian public servants dragged the case onto the world stage, claiming the killer was a Scythian agent and demanding intervention from the Western Alliance.
Yet neither Wojcik nor Farnicki believed any of it. Their theories about the killer's identity differed, but both agreed he — or she — was none of the above.
After three weeks, they had made almost no progress. They couldn't even build a reliable psychological profile. All they had were assumptions. The killer clearly harboured a deep hatred for Borderlanders; they were the only victims. And Scythes were far from the only people who wanted them dead. These fourteen men were no ordinary refugees. They were former members of Borderland's Nazi battalions. The Lechian authorities knew exactly who they had let in but kept quiet about it.
The Borderlanders had terrorised the villages where they were placed. Complaints of vandalism and rape flooded the police, but no action was taken. Locals were told to ignore the incidents. Fathers whose daughters had been beaten and violated grew furious. Farnicki believed this made Scythes the least likely suspects. The killer was almost certainly local — someone who knew the Sarmatian mountains well.
Wojcik disagreed. He suspected an outsider: a Scythe or even a Borderlander. If the killer were Lech, they would have caught him by now. What troubled him most was the persistent doubt that the killer might be a woman. The reason lay in the testimony of their only witness — a testimony no one but Wojcik took seriously.
Twelve-year-old Tomasz from Vladzlo had gone for a walk one night and failed to return. The villagers searched until dawn but found nothing. When his parents came home, they discovered him hiding in the shed, filthy and soaked in alcohol. A swastika had been carved into his cheek, and patches of skin had been cut from his arms and legs.
Tomasz told them he had lost his way, climbed a tree for shelter, and spotted a bonfire. Three Borderland refugees offered him shelter for the night. As they grew drunk, he realised something was wrong and tried to flee. They caught him, beat him, and dragged him back. While two held him down, the third carved the swastika into his face, then sliced pieces of flesh from his leg and ate them in front of the screaming boy.
Somehow Tomasz escaped and ran into the wetlands. There, he claimed, he met a rusalka — a beautiful, gentle woman who comforted him and guided him home, even though she didn't speak Lechian.
Wojcik believed the boy had encountered a real woman in those dark woods — possibly the killer or a witness. The child, traumatised, had turned her into a mythical saviour. Farnicki dismissed the idea. Serial killers were almost always men. It was difficult to believe a woman could slaughter so many in such a brutal manner, even if the victims were drunk and asleep.
The motive also suggested frenzy rather than calculated madness. The killings lacked any sexual element. They appeared triggered by a specific event — most likely what had happened to Tomasz. A woman who had witnessed the atrocity might have chosen the only method available to a weaker person: killing them in their sleep. Since then, she had followed the same pattern. Her trail led steadily southward, ever closer to Borderland.
Wojcik had drawn a line on the map from Wroclaw, where six male prostitutes had been strangled or shot in the head before the Sarmatian killings began. The cases seemed unrelated on the surface, yet something connected them. He was certain the next incident would lie further along that southward line.
***
"Where were you last night?"
"I went for a walk."
"In the middle of the night, in the Sarmatian woods?!"
"I like the eerie silence and the fresh air. It helps me think."
"About what?"
"You know that, Emin."
"You haven't spoken about him since… I'm worried about you. Talk to me. Sharing the grief might make it easier — for both of us. He was my friend, too."
"I'm jealous of you. You knew him when he was younger. Maybe he told you things he never told me…"
"We weren't really close until recently. I only knew him as a colleague before — just a face I saw at work."
"That's what I'm jealous of. I wish I could hold onto even those brief moments when his face appeared before me."
"He was more than a friend or colleague to you, wasn't he? You loved him?"
"I did."
"I'm so sorry, Alex. I didn't realise you had fallen for him. The way you looked at him… I should have seen it."
"You couldn't have. At first, I thought it was just a passing fancy. The longer I fought it, the more I understood it was real. That's why I was there the day I killed Nina. He never knew I was hiding in the car. I wanted to see what he did when I wasn't around."
"Did you ever tell him how you felt?"
"No. I learned my lesson in Gaul. Every relationship ended in disappointment. I was different then — more open, more cheerful. If I liked someone, I told them. But Gauls don't value sincerity, and they were never with me for love. That's why I never dared tell Volodja. I loved him from a distance, treasuring those evening conversations. God, how I loved his eyes… But it's not the fear of rejection I regret most. It's not knowing how he felt about me. It's silly, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't. When you love someone that much and can't say it, even the smallest sign of affection becomes precious."
"Exactly. Did he ever talk about me?"
"No, he was a gentleman. But I think he liked you."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because I like you. Have you noticed how men look at you? Volodja was no exception. He probably didn't show it because he feared rejection — or because he couldn't believe a woman like you could be interested in him."
"Thank you."
"I know what you did last night, Alex. And I don't think Volodja would approve."
"Volodja disapproved of many things. He's not here anymore. There are only you and me. And I know what you did in Wroclaw. Was it necessary to burn the house?"
"How did you find out?"
"I read about it in the papers. I didn't understand most of the text, but the pictures said enough."
"If you've been following the news, you must have seen the hysteria about the Sarmatian maniac. The whole world is talking about it. For Volodja's sake, please stop this madness."
"You think I'm not honouring his memory enough? It's all I think about! I'm doing this for him! Have you forgotten why we're here? Do you know what they did to that boy? I'm doing the world a favour by ridding it of these bastards!"
"And what about the others?"
"Don't pretend you see them as human. You've told me about the horrors you witnessed undercover. You enjoy killing them as much as I do. It eases the pain of losing him."
"No, it doesn't. You think that now because grief is driving you mad, but every Nazi you kill destroys a part of yourself. I was once a different man. I destroyed that man piece by piece doing exactly what you're doing. I don't want you to become like me. I had to burn the house to cover your tracks, but the firefighters arrived in time. We must be careful. The whole of Lechia is hunting the maniac in these mountains. We can't afford to be caught."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. They still have no real idea who they're looking for. We just need to be extra cautious and patient. Ivo is heading for Borderland. We're almost there. Stay home tonight. I'll tell you everything I remember about Volodja."
"That would be nice."
***
It was a beautiful day to wake up to, though Ivo had never cared for winter landscapes. He stretched, then pulled the thick duvet down to glance out the window. Snow was falling. Soft white flakes blanketed the bristly pine trees, preparing them for their winter slumber. The sight made his eyelids grow heavy again. He fought the drowsiness, threw off the duvet, and got dressed.
He had promised himself a proper rest once he reached Borderland. For now, he had to keep moving. Outside, his former subordinates from the Valkyries battalion were already up and — to his relief — sober. They greeted him as he walked to a plastic barrel filled with rainwater. He plunged his head and torso into the icy water. The shock jolted him fully awake. After breakfast with the men, Ivo set off.
The past weeks had been exhausting. After his evacuation from the hotel in Latium, he had needed a safe place to hide. His Western contacts couldn't arrange travel to Gomora immediately, and he dared not wait. Scythian intelligence was on his trail. Hiding elsewhere in the West was too risky. Lechia had seemed the best option. Wroclaw offered anonymity, but his instincts told him to move on. If discovered, the Lechs couldn't protect him. His true loyalists waited in Stanislau. That region, though officially surrendered, wasn't yet fully under Scythian control. There, among his own, he would be safe.
He avoided planes, trains, and anything requiring identification, relying instead on hitchhiking and trusted drivers. He never stayed in one place longer than a day. In the Sarmatians he travelled on foot. Local contacts informed him where former comrades were hiding.
Though these men were reckless and brutal, they answered his call. They hated him but feared the consequences of harming him. His journey through the mountains had been surprisingly smooth.
Then came the news: a serial killer was slaughtering Borderlanders in the Sarmatians. All the victims were men Ivo had stayed with. He immediately understood it was no random maniac, but someone hunting him specifically. Fortunately, no one connected the killings to his presence. When the murders suddenly stopped, he believed he had shaken off his pursuers.
Now, only one final march remained. If he kept a steady pace, he would cross into Borderland before sunset.
***
Alex struggled to keep up with Emin but never asked him to slow down. They had followed Ivo's trail for days. If they wanted to catch him, they had to move quickly. Emin knew she was near exhaustion; he could hear it in her laboured breathing. He dropped his backpack, took hers, and ignored her protests.
"The snow will cover his tracks, Emin," she gasped.
"Don't worry. He won't escape us this time."
He suddenly pressed a hand over her mouth and whispered for silence. In the quiet woods, they both heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Emin motioned her to hide behind some bushes while he went to investigate.
A short while later, a man appeared, following their tracks with a gun in his hand. Alex waited until he crouched to examine Emin's bag, then struck him hard on the head with a baseball bat. She tied him securely to a tree. In his pocket she found a police badge. His name was Farnicki.
A chill ran down her spine. If one policeman was hunting them, others might be close. Anger quickly replaced fear. This was her fault — her carelessness had brought the authorities after them. Sensing Emin was in danger; she grabbed the bag and followed his tracks.
Her instinct was correct. Emin was in trouble. An older, pockmarked policeman with a square face held him at gunpoint. Alex stepped out from the bushes, gun raised.
"Put the weapon down," she ordered.
The man didn't move. From Emin's expression, he understood the woman behind him was armed. When he turned and saw Alex, his face turned deathly pale.
"You're the rusalka, aren't you?" he asked in Lechian.
Alex said nothing. She tightened her grip on the gun.
"No!" Emin shouted. "Put the gun down! She will shoot!"
"I know she will," the policeman muttered. He dropped his weapon into the snow.
The Lech stared at Alex as Emin tied him to a tree, studying her face as if committing every detail to memory. Snow began falling heavily. Emin knocked the man unconscious with the butt of his gun, and they hurried on.
"What was that about?" Alex asked once they were far enough away. "He called me rusalka!"
"That guy was crazy. He must have been following us. He asked me about a rusalka, too."
"There was another one. I knocked him out. They won't freeze, will they?"
"They'll be fine. It'll take them time to free themselves, but they'll manage if they want to live."
***
Ivo crossed the border without incident. The frontier was unguarded and unfenced. The Borderlanders were too lazy to secure it, and the Lechs deliberately ignored it, expecting the territory to fall to them eventually.
He had been told men would be waiting to take him to Stanislau. No one was there. Unconcerned, he descended a wooded hillock into a small clearing, dropped his backpack, and sat down to wait. The snow had stopped. A faint floral scent drifted on the cold air. Strange, he thought. Jasmine in winter?
As he reached for his lighter, he heard the unmistakable click of a gun behind his head.
"Stand up and show me your hands, Ivo," a woman's voice said.
Ivo raised his hands slowly and turned.
"Oh, look! It's that abominable half-breed again! How did you find me?"
"You killed Volodja," Alex said, her voice trembling with pure hatred, her eyes black with rage.
"Alex!"
Emin appeared at the top of the hillock. For a split second, Alex glanced toward him. Ivo seized the moment. He knocked the gun from her hand and tackled her to the ground, choking her while smashing her head against the frozen earth.
Emin charged down the slope and crashed into Ivo. The two men rolled across the snow, trading powerful blows. Emin was stronger, but Ivo was a trained fighter.
"Emin, watch out!" Alex screamed.
Too late. Ivo had manoeuvred Emin toward the edge of a cliff. As Emin threw a heavy right hook, Ivo ducked and drove his fist into his stomach. Emin doubled over, staggered backwards, and slipped on the crumbling edge. Alex watched in horror as he fell into the abyss.
"Emin…" she whispered, the word dissolving into the cold air.
Dizziness overwhelmed her. She collapsed. Ivo picked up the fallen gun and stood over her, towering like a predator.
"We are Scythes," she gasped, "and God is with us."
"Shut up, you stupid bitch!" He aimed the gun at her head.
Alex thought she heard a distant scream — like an angel calling her name. She smiled faintly. Then Ivo's body jerked. A bullet hole appeared between his eyes. He dropped the gun and collapsed beside her.
Alex turned her head. A figure moved among the trees on the hillock.
She heard Emin's voice calling for help. Somehow, she dragged herself to the edge. Emin had fallen onto a lower ledge. He was injured but alive. Alex reached for his hand, but his weight began to pull her over. Strong male hands suddenly grabbed her.
The man was Slobodan — a Yugoslav with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He spoke Scythian with a thick accent. Emin knew him.
Emin took Alex in his arms. As Slobodan led them away from the cursed forest, the terrible tension that had gripped her for weeks finally began to fade. She buried her face in Emin's coat and wept silently.